


The Sermon

by freeofcharlie



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God
Genre: American History, American Literature, Christianity, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Non-Explicit, POV Second Person, RPF, Religion, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23309827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freeofcharlie/pseuds/freeofcharlie
Summary: You have an angry sermon to deliver, and you have sin on your mind.
Relationships: Jonathan Edwards/Benjamin Franklin
Kudos: 1





	The Sermon

**Author's Note:**

> Many (weird, out-of-place) phrases and sentences are borrowed from "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" by Edwards--an absolutely stunning piece.
> 
> Credits to M for teaching the course on American literature, and accidently shipping those two for me by making Edwards say "Ben, stop it."
> 
> Credits to L for encouraging me to write and, of course, promising me her kudos.

“Their foot shall slide in due time.”

You stand in front of a crowd that is looking up at you. You hear the pulse pounding in your ears, muffling the sound of whatever that rustles in the summer air.

Your stomach gives a slight twitch at this threat you have just made. This is always how you begin a sermon—what a childish move, he used to say. A couple of men start swaying rather uneasily at your accusation of them being doomed to a sudden unexpected destruction. Diligent, hardworking men are always too proud of themselves. You have always told him to live fearfully upon this earth, and he has always smiled at that warning. His smile looks too proud even now, so you move your head a little bit to drive it out of your mind.

The time has not come for you, but the time is near—very near. Three times have you been scorched by hellfire, or was it something else? This thought is making the warm wind of July feel somewhat suffocating for you. You slightly adjust your posture. By the mere pleasure of God, His sovereign pleasure... Your head makes a sudden jerk when you see the image of a printing boy vaguely forming and dissipating against the motionless crowd. The first time. In your memory his face and fingers and shirt and pants and shoes were all spattered with ink. You handed him your article, and saw his eyebrows lift up while he skimmed through the pages. You believe there has been a black spot of ink on you ever since.

What are we, that we should think to stand before Him? He never went to Yale as you did, anyway. Your eyes sweep across the crowd and land on the dress of a young lady, so excitedly trembling. The last time you saw a dress as white as that was on campus, where you brought the 13-year-old girl who shared your pure and frantic faith in God. Together you two offered full submission to Him, and yet she still managed to save a little share of herself for you. The white dress now moves swiftly and elegantly between the kitchen and your bedroom. She admires you with such young and reassuring cheerfulness, and you love her for it. No one understands you as she does, or so you say.

Then came the second time. The devil stands ready to fall upon them, and seize them as his own, you tell the crowd, at what moment God shall permit him. The fight was so bad that she burst into tears trying to keep you down. You shook her off and hurled whatever that was in your hand across the room. It hit him in the chest and became a gentle scattering of papers. The white dress probably put them away later, because you don’t remember seeing them ever again. You said he was arrogant and selfish and absolutely evil—is that really what you said? —and he said you were wrong. You were only three years older than him and still he called you a mumbling grandpa. Now you hear yourself preaching about some fire pent up in people’s own hearts struggling to break out, and you hear the crowd’s moan of despair. The hellish flame finally took over when your furious eyes met the squinting pair of his. You grabbed something again, aimed at his face, and missed.

He deserves even the severest punishment. You fix your stare upon everyone below, slowly and clearly listing all his crimes. You bitterly tell the crowd of his healthy constitution, his own care and prudence, his best contrivance, and all his righteousness. They are screaming and weeping and kneeling down. They might have been like that for quite a while already, but you only notice them now. For a split second this scene renders you helpless, and your lips voicelessly quiver. Is it he who's chuckling behind your back, as you believe he has done so many, many times? There are black clouds of God’s wrath now hanging directly over your heads, and there are his faces everywhere. You turn around, hoping to hide your confusion from the audience. No one really pays attention to you when they are so occupied with repentance and terror.

But you are only looking directly at him now, and you certainly can’t turn back again. You continue.

O sinner! The madness of the congregation devours you. The shriek of a child sends a horrible tickling sensation down your spine, and tears your body in half along its way. He has always been fascinated with electricity. Like a lightning he hit you and lit up your body with a wild fire, and that was the third time. The sharp pain had brought on you an overwhelming fatigue, and only one moment later you fell asleep on the dampened sheet. Maybe you were supposed to feel pleasure, and maybe you really did: there is no way to find out now that you have secretly denied any possibility of it. Oh that you would consider it, whether you be young or old! You have always said that true belief comes from an inward sweet sense of His glory and nothing else. Distantly you recall him joking that you should come to this true belief in him, the man lying right next to you, instead of the thing you may never see. How could he make you choose? Humiliation and anger boil inside you as you suddenly turn around again, and begin walking slowly yet firmly down into the howling crowd.

And you, young men! You point to the messy little apprentice smearing your soul and leaving warm letters on it. And you, young women! You point to the white satin dress swirling by your side, shining ever so bright in the pious candlelight. And you, children, who are unconverted! You point to the misty shadows of that unnatural night, that fruitless and thus condemnable game of yours, that blasphemous mocking of the holiest work of creation. People fall at your feet while you walk among them, as your Christ once walked among thieves and prostitutes and thousands of sinful wanderers. You try hard to point him out from the crowd and let all the world despise him. You look and look and you see him in everyone.

He has always prided himself for being a modern self-made man, even though you repeatedly accuse him for going way too far. You find him smiling and escaping you again, continuing on the sinful path of which the destination you can never see. He’s the happy guy—the kind so narcissistic that he might as well write an autobiography, you think to yourself—and will surely outlive you. You catch yourself laughing at this silly thought. Why on earth are you always trying to save him? Did he ever ask you to?

“Haste and escape for your lives, look not behind you, escape to the mountain, lest you be consumed.” You have reached the end of the crowd, and the noise behind you has somehow quieted down. At the gate of the church is where you stand now. It’s always too late to switch lanes, even if you want to.


End file.
